


Through the Glass

by holdingtorches



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Childhood Friends, Confession, F/M, Fluff, POV First Person, Scotland, doctor who - Freeform, local colour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 15:23:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12820428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdingtorches/pseuds/holdingtorches
Summary: Tom meets a childhood friend of his after years of not seeing her. Things ensue.





	Through the Glass

**Author's Note:**

> The plot for this one actually came before all the other fanfics I’ve written over the past year. It just so happened that Tom would go about doing something so incredibly dorky like crying when he was scared or singing an extremely wonderful song in the shower, thus delaying the ending for this fic.

It was my Nan’s birthday that day. Various clans from all over Scotland came just to celebrate her 89th birthday. As for me? I was dying of boredom. I soon found myself reading my cousin Julia’s sappy one-shot about the romance between a Jewish woman and a Nazi general. I never really liked those kinds of cliché stories, but then again, I was too bored out of my mind to actually care.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Pita?”

I turned my head in the direction the voice came from. I had a really strong feeling I knew who its owner was.

And there he was. Oh yes, he was a bit taller than before and his wild, golden curls were shorter, tamer, and more of a ginger now, but he was indeed the same lad who was my number one companion whenever he and his family visited Greenock during the weekends and holidays or whenever they can. This was the same boy who named the twin oak trees in my backyard as “Stephano” and “Gonzales”.  But he was not a boy anymore. I was able to note that while we were apart, he grew up into an amazing, charming gentleman. He looked more tired than he did during the summer of his first year in Eton. Tired and…sadder.

“It’s been quite a while indeed, Tom. Your father, where is he?”

He gestured to a group of men with pints of beer in their hands, singing “Flower of Scotland”. I was able to make out my father somewhere in the group; he was right beside Tom’s dad.

“Your father is ever the Scotsman, Tom,” I sighed while shaking my head slightly.

“Same goes for your dad, you know. They’re still as close as ever, aren’t they?”

“Well, of course Tom. They’re childhood friends.”

“Just like us?”

“Yes, just like us. That and the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.”

It stung for him to say ‘Just like us’. I’ve kept my feelings both so concealed and so obvious at the same time and yet… this is what my friend Malaya would call “manhid”, or dense. No matter what I said or did, my feelings never got through to him. He was never,  _ever_ , able to piece together all the clues I’ve set up for him. I inwardly sighed and tried to liven up a bit; it was the first time we’ve seen each other in years and on my nan’s birthday too.

“…So why aren’t you with them, lad? Look, they have so much Guinness there! It’s enough to sink the Spanish Armada’s fleets!” I said, masking the ache while trying to break the silence.

“All this pomp, revelry, and Guinness is getting just as tedious for me as it is for you, Pita.”

“Thomas William Hiddleston? Bored of Guinness‽ And besides, how are you so sure that I’m bored?”

“I’m pretty sure. I mean, just look at what you’re reading. You never read Julia’s stories.”

“Pff…” I scoffed, putting my cousin’s story down. “What do you suggest we do then, Thomas old bean?”

“Oh, do stop with the trench talk. That’s so 1942.”

“Ehehehe.”

“I think you just stole my laugh, Pita. Won’t you go out for a walk with this ‘old bean’ of yours?”

“If I remember correctly, it was  _you_  who stole my laugh, lad. Sure, I’ll have that walk with you.”

Together, we walked past tables and the group of men our fathers were with; they were singing “Scotland the Brave” now. We pushed passed chatty crowds and stepped into the cold outdoors of the Highlands. The wind blew sharply and frigidly as the scent of petrichor lingered in the air. The wind was whistling, and its tune helped mask the sound of the drinking men, whose voices gradually toned down until they disappeared as we walked on. Strands of hair blew into my face as we walked on, making me feel awkward.

We strolled along, not knowing where we were headed. As we did, we saw familiar faces and neighbours. Tom and I would say hi to everyone we can across and we even stopped for a while to chat with some.

“I love everyone here!” Tom loudly said as we walked away from my cousin Pollux (and his twin brother Castor). His arms were raised in the air in some sort of semaphore ‘U’ formation and I couldn’t help but feel a smile curve my mouth as I saw how adorable he actually was at that moment.

“…But who did you love the most?” I asked him, my question laced with genuine curiosity.

“You,” he replied.

I didn’t believe what I heard. I thought I was just hearing things. My eyes widened in surprise and in the span of a few seconds, a civil war on Tom’s answer broke out in my mind. The cynical side of my mind thought he might have said ‘Lou’ or ‘Sue’ or something, convincing me that he did not say ‘you’. But the logical part of my mind would retaliate, saying that I was absolutely healthy and that I heard what I heard.

“Well, of course, Pita,” he added, interrupting my train of thought. “You’re my best friend. My love for you comes naturally.”

My heart sank once more as I heard his reason. I thought there was so much more behind his answer. I thought in those ten short, glorious seconds of silence that he actually returned the unrequited, concealed love I’ve felt for him all these years. I hoped that he thought of me as more than  _just a friend._ But a sense of relief mingled with my sadness; at least he felt  _some_  form of love for me. I guessed it was better than no love for me at all. I smiled a soft and slightly sad smile as I huddled against my puffer jacket, the wind bitingly cold.

As I trudged by his side, memories of our past flooded my mind.  Tom’s father and mine were friends ever since they were five. When they grew up, they even took the same course in university. The only difference was that I stayed behind in Greenock while Tom’s home was in London. Sometimes, my dad and I would ride on the Flying Scotsman to visit his family in London, but more often than not, Tom and his family were the ones who would visit us in Greenock. We weren’t able to get in touch since the year after he graduated from RADA; his career as an actor was taking flight and I was in my final year of literature. Despite our lack of communication, I was able to keep tabs on him through tumblr, my breath hitching whenever a picture of him in a suit was released and crying myself to sleep whenever he was rumoured to be dating another girl. This year’s Wimbledon season was an absolute cryfest; he took his darling sister Emma last year. This year was different. First Jane and then Lara: Wimbledon was definitely the time when I was torn between driving all the way to London just to remind Tom of my existence —while slapping all the girls who ever bewitched him— and keeping my distance, all the while thinking that the second option would probably make him happier. My love had been one sided for the longest time ever, our friendship creating what seemed to me as an awkward, invisible wall. To break it would mean to riskily raze our friendship to the ground but to stay put would mean that I would walk on with a heart broken like vase: nothing can put it back together because something was missing. That something or someone would be—no, definitely  _is_ — Tom.

“There, Pita. Let’s sit here,” Tom said, interrupting my internal monologue.

He pointed to an ancient rock overlooking the glen and the seashore. It was wide enough to seat the both of us. Although the rock was moist with the rain that fell at noon and a wee bit slippery with moss, we settled ourselves on it.

“Remember this rock?” Tom asked, breaking the silence. “When we were kids, we used to steal cookies from the cookie jar your mother had in your kitchen cupboard and we’d take them out to eat here.”

“And we never got caught. Not even once.”

“I’ve forgotten,” Tom said, his eyes traversing the past while staring into the horizon “why your nickname is Pita. I know your real name; it’s Athena. But how did ‘Athena’ transform into ‘Pita’?”

“I think it was when we had a picnic down there by the beach when I was five and you were eight. Basil Clarke Finkelstein, the redheaded lad who constantly bullied and extorted our sweetshop money, was riding his bike and spotted us. He went up to us because…”

“Because?” Tom prodded, eager to remember what happened.

At that moment, I found his face so hilarious that I couldn’t have answered him seriously without laughing even if I tried.

“ ‘Cause… ‘He saw us rollin; he hatin’. Patrollin’ and tryna catch us ridin’ dirty. Tryna catch us ridin’ dirty, tryna catch us ridin’ dirty, tryna catch us ridin’ dirty—’”

I was interrupted by Tom’s laughter, and the mere sound of his laughter made me laugh as well. We spent a few good minutes laughing at what I sang.

“You’re still fond of making your life into a musical!” Tom said, trying to catch his breath.

“So you know that song?” I asked him, wiping tears away from my eyes.

“Yeah, Joss was fond of that song or something,” he answered, his laughter slowly dying down.

“Anyway, Basil Clarke Finkelstein, the redheaded lad who constantly bullied us and extorted our sweetshop money, was riding his bike and spotted us. He went up to us because, as you can recall, we were always his easy targets. He told us to hand over what little money we were going to use for sweets and I told him that he can even take the food we had on the picnic blanket if he could eat what I was going to give him,” I told him, trying my best to make him remember.

“Oh yeah, I remember! I accidentally packed hot sauce instead of ketchup that day and you filled the pita pocket with mayonnaise, sand, and half a bottle of hot sauce. You handed it to him and he immediately took a bite from it. The look on his face! The look on his face was priceless! He spat it out and flung it towards the sea, then flipped us the finger and ran away. His eyes were watering because of the gross taste and his lips puckered up because he was actually allergic to chili!” Tom said, grinning from ear to ear at our victory’s memory.

“You kept on calling me ‘The Heroic Pita Girl’ for the entire day simply because you didn’t know that the kind of bread we had that day was called ‘Pita’. It eventually telescoped to just ‘Pita’, and ever since that day, it was the nickname that I used. Even at Uni, they’d constantly ask how my real name transformed into my nickname. I’d tell them the same story but I always excluded your name, of course,” I told him, remembering that he might get into controversy or some sort of Hiddlesgate if I ever mentioned his name in the story.

“…”

“…”

“It’s been eight years, huh?”

“So it has, lad. Eight years since you’ve graduated from RADA. Eight years since we last met,” I said, not even daring to look him straight in the eye for fear that all the bottled up frustration I’ve felt for him will overwhelm me and escape in the form of tears and sobs.

“Well, what do you do now, Pita?” he asked, the corner of his mouth turning up to form a smirk.

“I’m a writer now… screenplays and stuff like that. The BBC hired me recently and in a few weeks’ time, I’ll be off to London.”

“For the BBC, you say?”

“Yeah. For Doctor Who, to be precise.”

“Doctor Who?”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I remembered the time you ran to my house and climbed through my bedroom window just to watch the show because your mum was busy watching, in your own words, ‘a lousy romance show about a fat man who likes ice cream and a tall woman who always wore pink. Yuck.’ And now you’re going to write for the show you risked breaking our leg for! That’s absolutely fantastic!  _Molto bene_!”

“Ehehehe. I see what you did there: Nine and Ten references.”

“So are you writing something as of now?”

“No, but once I get there, Steven Moffat will be my boss, meaning I might do some things for Sherlock as well.”

“…Do you know who the thirteenth regeneration’s actor is going to be?”

“No…” I said, turning to face him. “…won’t you tell me?”

As he whispered the actor’s name into my ear, I was shocked as hell. I never thought it possible… but it was.

“Oh my lord! For real?!” I asked him, unable to contain my excitement.

“Yes,” he replied in a low whisper. “But you have to keep it a secret.”

“My lips are sealed, old bean. Besides, I haven’t even found a place to stay in yet.”

“…You could stay at my place.”

“N-no way, lad!” I stammered, blood rushing to my cheeks as I thought of all the possible scenarios that could happen in the given circumstance. “I wouldn’t dare impose! Besides, you…you… you already have a… lass of your own.”

The thought of him being with another woman stabbed at my heart like a thousand little knives. It hurt me to imagine him with a pretty, intelligent, considerate, and not to mention sexy, girl: the kind of girl I would never be. It was definitely foolish of me for hoping that our story would evolve into one of those cliché childhood friends-turned-into-lovers stories that I absolutely yet ironically abhorred. The tears started to haze my vision; I felt the pressure building up in my chest, my breathing complicated by the wretchedness that accompanied my sluggish acceptance of the situation.

“No, I don’t.”

Wait what?

“…eh?”

“No I don’t, Pita. I don’t have a girlfriend as of now.”

“…”

The situation officially became awkward to the point of no return.

I realised, in the light of the situation’s inelegance, that the wall that I thought was in between us wasn’t a wall; it was an enormous glass window. I was so close and yet so far from him. To break it would mean to risk hurting him as well and although I was selfish, I wasn’t selfish enough to hurt him for my own gain. My love for him was too strong to let me break through.

The sound of the waves rolling back and forth towards the seashore and crashing against the sharp, jagged rocks played on as the lack of anything to say placidly suffocated us.

“Do you still remember the beach?” Tom asked sooner or later.

“Do I ever. You were nine then, and I was six. You tried to run away from the seashore and tripped, scraping your knees and breaking your leg. I was the one who carried you all the long way from the shore, which was fine because although you were older than me, you were so gangly and thin back then that I even carried you in an awkward and somewhat gender-bent bridal style.

“I ended up bringing you to my house because your parents and sisters were out in town buying some stuff for supper along with my parents and you didn’t know where your dad left the keys. I made you sit down on the kitchen countertop and treated your wounds, then decided to wait for your mum and dad to come home while watching Doctor Who. You then started to complain, telling me that you were famished. I can’t remember what I cooked for you, but I distinctly remember how I ‘excavated’ the cupboards and the fridge just to see what I can put together in a dish,” I said, smiling at that distant memory.

“I remember,” Tom said, his voice sounding lost in the memory of that night. “You gave me some spaghetti and some pudding, then you carried me back to my house once you heard a car rolling up our driveway. You told my parents everything that happened. I distinctly remember you accidentally calling my dad ‘papa’. I stayed behind in Scotland with your family while you had to take care of me the following week, checking on me every single time you got home from school.”

“That’s right, lad,” I told him. “That’s what happened.”

“Why did I run away again?”

“Because you insisted that there were sharks swimming near the beach no matter how many times I told you that there are  _no_ sharks in  _Greenock_. And even if there  _were_  sharks in Greenock, it wasn’t shark season at that time.”

“That was typical of me to do that.”

“You were such a dork back then, Tom.”

“I still am, Pita.”

“Whatever do you mean, lad? Right now, you’re the bravest, manliest man I know in my life! I’m quite sure you’ve outgrown your pusillanimity by now,” I assured him.

“That’s a pretty big word, Pita. Then again, you’ve always been a fan of the drama of big words. The last time I heard that word was also from you, remember? It was the summer of my graduation from Cambridge, wasn’t it? We had some sort of debate at the train station.”

“So it was, wasn’t it? Moving that aside, you’ve definitely grown, lad. You’re not the skinny boy who ran away from the sharks that never were any longer. You’ve changed.” 

“No Pita, I’m still that lily-livered, beanstalk of a boy.”

“You may be a beanstalk, but you’re one hell of a sexy beanstalk,” I mumbled, realising all too late the repercussions of what I said if he actually heard.

“What?” Tom asked, confused.

“Nothing,” I said, pursing my lips and resisting the urge to laugh.  _Smooth, Pita. Real smooth._

“…I’m still a coward,” he sighed, sounding so ashamed.

“How so?” I asked him, confused.

“All these years, I’ve tried to run away from it, thinking that the one thing that fiercely stirred my emotions deserved something way better than what I can ever offer, thinking that I could move on by trying others. But now, at this very moment, I have to face all these feeling I have and strike while the iron is hot.”

“Face what? Your father’s haggis?”

“Ehehehe! No, Pita. Actually, his haggis has gotten a lot better than the last time you had it.”

“For real?”

“Yes, for real. What I need to face is…”

“Is…?”

“…what I feel for you, Pita.”

Wait, what?

I turned my head to face him, my eyes widening as they locked onto his. I looked into the abyss that was his gaze, and the abyss stared right back at me. He anticipated my reaction quietly, and I saw the mixed feeling of enthralled fear and captivating fascination in his blue eyes. Tom pressed his lips together and it seemed to me as if he was waiting for me to decipher the meaning behind his words. Yet no matter how I pieced it together, it didn’t sum up with my logic.

“…What?” I said, my voice quivering with nerve-racking confusion and disbelief. My heart started pounding as I overthought what he said. I thought that the freezing cold was making me hear things, things that would make blood rush to my cheeks and warm me up.

“Athena, I really will never know how to tell you this without being distracted by the way my heart is pounding or by the way your confused face is both adorable and hilarious, but the thing is: I love you. I’ve always thought that you’d never care for someone like me —what, with my plain personality and my embarrassing awkwardness? That’s why I tried to forget you by dating others, thinking that they can fill in the void of not having you there. But as the crowd of people surrounding me grew and grew, the more misunderstood and lonely I felt. Only you can understand me, darling; you’re the only one who sees me as who I am and not Loki or Henry V or anyone else I’ve been. You don’t see the mirage— the grandeur of the name I’ve made for myself. You see me the way I am. And that’s why I love you, Pita.

“I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same way. I just wanted you to know that my feelings for you exist, and that you are the most special, most important person in the world to me. Pita, I—“

At that moment, I cut his sentence short and embraced his torso tightly. I buried my face in his orange puffer jacket as the tears that threatened to escape a while earlier reappeared with a new kind of emotion in tow: the feeling of relief so dulcet and that it can bring someone to tears. I felt his arms embrace me, and I felt peace beyond measure. I wanted to keep that very moment in the event horizon of a collapsing galaxy so that it would never end. But alas, it had to end. Not in a bad way though.

He pulled away from my hug and lifted his hand to caress my cheek. He leant closer and pressed his lips to mine. I kissed him back, and it felt as if my heart was going to pop out of my ribcage as my blood boiled and raced through my veins, make me feel as if I was on fire. The chill lost its bite as Tom held me nearer to his body, his arm cradling my waist. His lips moved as if they were charmed by magic, and the kiss was way better than any other kiss I’ve ever had.

We pulled away from each other, our breaths forming small white puffs in the highland air. Soon after, Tom and I were discussing all sorts of things that happened in Greenock in the span of the eight years when he was away. We laughed at how Basil married Hortencia Bernard, our generation’s mean girl of the neighbourhood. He was delighted when I told him that Tobit, the chubby, tan boy down the street who always smelled of rice cake and shredded coconut, finally made his dreams come true and moved into a small but cosy flat in the East Side of London. We grew a bit sober when he found out that Jenny, the sweet girl who lived across his house had a baby who died soon after of anencephaly, the baby never seeing her own father because he was away at sea.  

Tom told me of how he enjoyed the company of Chris Hemsworth, and I fired back at him, telling him that he shouldn’t have kissed me if he was already dating Chris. He laughed an ‘ehehehe’ and I mussed up his curls. He shared with me how much his trip to Guinea changed his life perspective. We laughed about his crazy fan encounters, and I badgered him on his flirtatious behaviour with his fans. He told me of the sights he saw as he travelled around the world, and how he mentally photoshopped me by his side whenever he found alone himself at those places. I blushed at his admission; he may never know that I did the exact same thing when I found myself lonely, which was often.

We lost track of time, and eventually the horizon was coloured a gradient of lilac, indigo, and blood orange. The seagulls were soaring their last for the day, and the wind got chillier with every gust. Crickets were starting to chirp and the stars were coming out. The lights in the nearby village twinkled from afar like fireflies.

“We best go back there, unless you want everyone else assume that we were out doing something else,” Tom eventually said, partly wheezing because of the extremely corny joke I told him the moment before.

“I’ll let them think what I’ll have them think,” I told him, getting up and patting the soil from the seat of my jeans. I helped him up and we walked back to the hall, my arm linked with his as my head leant against his shoulder. We entered the hall, and the air was hot and stuffy compared to the cool and crisp air outside. The party was still in full swing; the group of drinking men were still at it with pints in their hands, but something was missing from the scene. Our fathers weren’t there.

Tom’s dad and mine suddenly appeared in front of us, looking far from sober.

“I told ye, Robbie, they’ll end up in each other’s arms sooner or later. Our bairns have grown up so fast! I remember when we used to complain about changing their wee nappies!” Tom’s dad told mine. He was a bit red in the cheeks and his eyes twinkled in contentment when he saw Tom, who was holding my hand. We stepped away from each other and shoved our hands in our respective pockets. Dear Lord on high, that was embarrassing.

“Oh aye, James. Speaking of growin’ up, my little lassie’s moving out! I’m a free man again!” my dad yelled a little bit too loudly. I facepalmed myself and anticipated to feel the worst embarrassment to ever grace the earth.

“Where to?” Tom’s dad inquired.

“London. Says she has a job down there for the BBC or something,” my dad answered with a tinge of pride in his voice.

“Dad,” I interjected, “I think it’s time for you to go home. You’re havering and as drunk as a sponge in beer.”

“Well where will you be staying when you get there, lass?” Tom’s dad asked, facing me.

“Ehm, to be perfectly honest with you, Mr Hiddleston… I haven’t really found a place to stay in yet,” I answered him, a wee bit embarrassed with my answer.

“You can crash in at Tom’s then!” he exclaimed, coming closer to give Tom a few hard slaps on the back.

My eyes widened at the thought. Various scenarios played in my mind at top speed. Just the mere thought of sharing a room with Tom set my imagination alight with an infinite number of possibilities. Tom’s eyes were wide too, probably because of the slaps he received from his dad. Or maybe he was thinking the same way I did. I’ll never know.

Tom and I stole sideway glances at each other, both of us extremely embarrassed by the situation our fathers presented. We pursed our lips and tried avoiding the rashness of his father’s proposition, all the while basking in the light hilarity of everything that was happening.

“Dad,” Tom said, “it isn’t that easy. Pita has—”

“Och, stop acting like you donnae want this, lad!” our dads said in unison, both interrupting Tom.

Tom and I stole glances at each other as anticipation surged through me. I was praying—no,  _begging_ — to my lucky stars in heaven for his sweet ‘yes’; after all, I sort of wanted it too. Eventually, Tom turned to face me and said the words I was waiting to hear in his pleasant voice.

“I guess it would be nice to have someone around; it gets quite lonely in the flat. It’s been almost twenty four years since I’ve had had your cooking, with the eight-year old me first tasting your cooking the night I ran from the sharks that never were. Please, please won’t you stay with me?” Tom said, returning my gaze. He looked so sincere that my cheeks started to feel as if they were burning again.

I thought about his invitation for a while, the butterflies in my stomach fluttering at the speed of Brownian Motion. I didn’t believe what I heard at first but as my doubt lingered, the reality of the situation persisted until it dawned on me that I was to live with the lad I’ve always loved. I was at a crossroads; one path was so familiar while the other one was drenched with uncertainty and mystery. As Tom’s eyes bore into my soul, I became sure of my decision.

I walked up to Tom and hugged him tightly. From the corners of my eyes, I saw our fathers snap out their drunkenness, their eyes widening at my intrepid gesture and their mouths breaking into wide grins.

“Yes, Tom. If you want me to, I will,” I whispered into his chest. Tom pulled away from me, his eyes sparkling with joy.

* * *

 

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

“Thomas! Hurry up! It’s about to start!” I yelled as I rushed to the sofa, nearly spilling my drink and dropping my popcorn.

“Stop calling me Thomas, Pita! We’ve established this! It makes me feel so… so old!” he said, striding over to the sofa and plopping down beside me.

“I’m having none of that, lad!” I told him, turning to smile at him after putting my snacks down on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

Chris, Luke, Tom’s cousins, his sisters (yes, even Sarah), and his parents were there in the living room of Tom’ flat, and they were seated in various places around the room. My dad said that he couldn’t make it, but promised to watch it from Scotland.

“You!” Tom cried as he started tickling me. Despite my howls of laughter, I heard the all too familiar sound of synthesised piano and electronica and a doubled heart beat-like tempo.

“Tom! Stop!” I said in a fit of giggles. “It’s really starting now!”

We both calmed down and started watching what was on the telly. As the TARDIS raced through the time vortex, Peter Capaldi’s and his regenerations’ actress’ names were shown. Just after their names was the title of the episode and its writer. Everyone in the room save me was clapping after seeing my name below the ‘Written by’; my hands were preoccupied with hiding my face. Tom grabbed my wrists and tore my hands away from my face, kissing my cheek in the process. Luke threw a pillow at us and reminded Tom that there were children in the room; some of Tom’s nephews were also there.

I watched the season finale beside Tom and although the episode was amazing, I was excited for the last few minutes of the episode. Why? Because the Twelfth wasn’t going to be Twelve for long.

The scene where The Doctor was regenerating came along, and I was ecstatic. The effects team had done a good job on transitioning from the grey hair and timeworn face to a youthful one with… curls! Amazing, dense, fluffy curls! The new regeneration looked up, and I smiled when I saw that all-too familiar face.

The face was Tom’s, and The Doctor was finally a ginge.

* * *

 

The episode had ended, and Tom and I found ourselves out on his balcony.

“That was amazing, Pita,” Tom told me, handing me some pudding and a spoon.

“Thank you lad. You were  _fantastic_ ,” I replied, looking at him while poking at the pudding with my spoon.

Tom and I stared at each other for a while, and the butterflies that appeared when our dads told us to live together had resurfaced in my stomach, fluttering even faster than ever before. His expression betrayed his silence, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t verbalise it.

“Hey, thank you,” he finally said.

“Whatever for, Tom? I’ve done nothing at all,” I told him.

“No. You’ve done much more than what you take credit for, darling. You’ve restored my faith in love. Thank you so much for staying by my side and loving me with your whole heart. I promise to do just the same and even more, darling, I really do.”

My cheeks flushed pink at his words, and I shyly looked away, my pudding forgotten as I set it on the seat behind me. Why did he have to look so sincere while saying that? My heart was beating loudly and my feels full to bursting. Just as I was distracted by his gratitude, he grabbed my chin and leant in to kiss me. As I closed my eyes, I heard everyone else left inside cheering and yelling. His lips pressed and moved feverishly against mine, and my mind grew numb to the point of resisting everything but the feel of his kiss on my lips. He pulled away, and I opened my eyes.

I saw the same lad I saw a few months back at nan’s birthday. But so many things had changed since then. My love was no longer unrequited and the glass window between us had shattered into a million pieces. We were together now, just as we should’ve been long before then. Our lives were much happier with each other, and we were filled with the certainty that nothing could tear us apart. Every puzzle piece had been fitted in its proper place, and my heart was finally at ease.

I looked at the London night skyline as his arms enveloped me from behind, his lips brushing against my neck. I giggled, basking in the knowledge of his love and my luck. I had everything I needed and wanted in that very moment, and nothing more. 


End file.
